


Recovery

by jencsi



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencsi/pseuds/jencsi
Summary: Coming back with the thunder
Relationships: Julie "Finn" Finlay/D.B. Russell
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChangingbacktoBellamort500](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangingbacktoBellamort500/gifts).



It happened so fast, like a shot, a hit to the head, ironically. The dizzying chaos that surrounded him and her in that hospital room took his breath away. The shocking gasp of air that startled him as she awakened suddenly, sending the monitors on her heart into a frenzy and made his heart explode in his chest. Confusion dominated her looks and quiet mumbles as she struggled to find her voice after three months of silence, a world record for her. When she finally spotted him past the limbs of the nurses and doctors that surrounded her, she let out a startled cry, was he real, was any of this real? 

The way she looked at him, the way she struggled to escape the bed, pushing weakly at the hospital staff as they tried to contain her and calm her. He knew exactly why she was panicking this way, she thought she was still being attacked. 

“Hey,” he soothed her and the room, pushing past them all to get to her “it’s alright, he’s not here.” 

Her hands flailed as she grabbed on to his hand first then his entire arm, clinging tight, needing to hear it from him that this was safe, that she was okay, that he was gone. 

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” he assures her and she nodded but kept her hands entangled in his, struggling to find a place of peace amongst this chaos. 

“Breathe,” he encouraged her and she did, one inhale and exhale at a time, until the monitors stopped screaming and the doctor stepped forward to address them. 

She demanded a memory test, her name, her occupation, the current president, her address, childhood memories, and so many more. 

Finn answered them all, voice trembling, words spilling out, slouching on the pillows where she ended up in her chaotic reawakening. She let go of his arm with just one hand and brought it up to her chest, grabbing at the fabric of the gown she wore, pressing on her heart, wincing, making faces of discomfort, eyes darting back and forth around the room and at him. 

Despite the quick assessment, the doctor needed more tests. They whisked her away before he could even offer any assurance or comfort to her, her hands forcibly yanked from their grip on his arm and he felt her nails dig into his skin, pierce it as she tried to hang on for dear life, something she came so close to losing. He was left there in her room, standing, gaping at the doorway, hearing her call for him, her voice fading as she got further away. 

He sank into the chair again, numb, shaking, turning his arm to examine the marks from her nails, a reminder of her fierceness and desperation. The single solitary thought occupying his brain; she’s alive. 

The clock ticked by the agonizing minutes since her departure. He bounced his leg up and down anxiously in the chair, unsure what to do or how long to wait or who to call. When noise at the door could be heard, he sat up, startled, but thankful for her return. 

“How do you feel?” he asked as the staff left them alone at last. 

“Horrible,” she confessed, rubbing her eyes then scratching her head.

“You need rest,” he reminded her. 

“I had three months of rest,” she reminds him and he realizes the staff must have told her about the coma and everything. 

“That’s not the same,” he shakes his head, motioning for her to lay down properly which she obeys, slouching back against the pillows then laying on her side, facing him, eyes visibly heavy with exhaustion from the tests. 

But it’s not that simple. He watches as she wrestles with the covers, adjusting them to a somewhat comfortable position. She stretches her arm out and wiggles her fingers wanting his hand to hold. He obliges and settles closer to her, holding her hand and rubbing her arm, covering her wrist up to her elbow, over and over, hoping to soothe her. She closes her eyes but scrunches her face every few seconds or so. She scratches at her head, at her neck, at itches and random feelings she can’t get rid of. He sees her leg twitch under the blankets, once, twice, again. She makes a whimper in frustration followed by more shifting and sighing. When he reaches out to adjust her falling covers, intending to pull them up to her shoulders, she jumps when she feels his hand on her shoulder. 

“Just me,” he soothes but her restlessness is antagonizing her with each passing minute. 

He focuses on her arm, trailing his fingers up and down, tracing the lines on her palm, hoping she will focus on that feeling instead of the hell her body is unleashing. Her hair is matted on the side of her head where she lays on the pillow while loose strands on the other side keep falling against her cheek, causing more annoyance. He sweeps them aside in one motion and she flinches at this contact. She’s gun-shy, he realizes, afraid, traumatized by touch, a horrible thing to be plagued by and he hopes for her sake it’s temporary. 

He thinks she’s fallen asleep because a solid minute passes by without any movement from her, until a garbled message over the hospital sound system startles her out of her drowsy state. She reaches behind her for a spare pillow but finds nothing, sobbing again in frustration at being ripped away from her creature comforts. She needs quiet. With his free hand, he covers her ear gently, caressing her cheek, hoping to muffle some of the wretched sounds beating their way into her brain. She allows this and drops her arm back against her body, curling both up against her chest, relieved of the burden of having to comfort herself. 

She’s warm, he soaks up this detail as a good sign, an indicator of life. She doesn’t fight or resist being cared for in her current state. She’s stopped fussing and seems to have settled at last. The sound of metal clanking in the hallway makes her jump worse than the previous time and turn her head, burrowing into the pillow. He silently curses these noises and interruptions. How can anyone recover like this?

Perhaps it was just the way it was going to have to be. The assault on her senses the result of months of back-building. She was aware of every small noise, senses heightened after going unused for months. He watches as she rubs her cheek against the pillow, nuzzling against one specific corner of it, a side that seems flat and comfortable for her aching neck. When she moves this way, she pushes her matted hair further up and he spots a jagged scar jutting across her forehead. He can’t recall seeing it while she was in the coma but knows it’s likely from the attack or subsequent life saving efforts by the doctors back in February. He hopes it’s not causing her any pain or discomfort and he secretly hopes she never sees it but as soon as she gets her hands on a mirror, she likely will. 

That was day one. With so many more left ahead of them to tackle, soothing her this way became an evening ritual, just before the staff scooted him out of the room as visiting hours ended. One particular evening, after she spent most of the day up and walking again, aided by nurses and therapeutic tools and practices, he found her curled up in the bed, sobbing quietly, grabbing at her legs, in obvious pain. 

“What happened?” he demanded from her and the nurse closest. 

“She made excellent progress,” the nurse said, “unfortunately her body is still adjusting to being back on it’s own two feet so she’s a bit sore.” 

To Russell, she appeared more than just “a bit sore” the way she cringed and winced as he sat beside her. 

“Where does it hurt?” he asked. 

She cried as she grabbed at her thigh, then her knee, all the way down her left leg to her ankle and the same motions on her right leg, both feeling like they were on fire. The rest of her body and her mind ached to sleep but her lower half was not cooperating. 

“Don’t you have something you can give her?” Russell asked of the nurse.

“Normally yes,” the nurse said “but we are avoiding heavy sedatives for right now, and anything that will disrupt the progress she’s made.” 

The subsequent moan in agony she made from the bed at this declaration summed up his feelings exactly. So she was just supposed to suffer? Hasn’t she suffered enough? 

The nurse backed out of the room to give them privacy and he sank down in the chair, dreading the pain that lay in store for her and the long night that lay ahead. 

“They said you’re doing really well,” he tried to distract her “you know, with therapy and stuff.”

“I want out of here,” she snapped at him, grabbing her sore knee, unable to relieve the pain from any spot. 

“You will,” he promises, gently pressing down on her right knee so she can have a break. 

The stronger pressure from his hand makes her yelp and lurch forward for a moment then fall back against her pillows in relief at being let go of her burden for a short time. She struggles to manage a breathing pattern that coincides with the sharp shooting pain radiating up and down each leg. One throbs, the other burns, they take turns being angry, protesting this assault on them. 

“Take me home,” she begs him with a tear filled gaze and it breaks his heart that he cannot do so. 

“Soon,” he promises again but she shakes her head, not believing him. 

“Now,” she demands through gritted teeth, so fierce, the strongest person he knows. 

“Jules I-” he starts to say and she cries again. 

“Don’t call me that,” she whines, having been tortured enough. 

“Come on,” he reasons with her “after all this time, it’s a beautiful name.”

“I hate it,” she lashes out at him “I hate everything.”

“No you don’t,” he bites back “you only think you do right now, and you have a right to be mad, I get it.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to him, all she can do is struggle to catch her breath as she winces again. 

“You know,” he starts again “I had a case back in April that I lost.”

“So?” she snaps, disinterested. 

“It was blood spatter,” he continues, squeezing her leg again “kiddo it was a massacre, and we tried, we set up the strings and lasers and measured everything, we distanced the cast off to the floor and thought we found the height of the killer and the weapon and everything but they threw out our findings because we didn’t account for how fast the blood would dry and set into the wall, we measured the wrong blood Jules, we discovered two crime scenes that week.”

She eyes him with pity, not entirely sure she would have been of any help if she would have been conscious during that time. Nevertheless, she feels bad they lost and a killer likely got away. 

“Can I see it?” she asks now. 

He nods and pulls up the photos from his laptop. She settles the computer on her lap, wincing but focusing on the images, squinting, feeling her neurons fire up and the old familiar routine of processing coming back to her. 

“Your photos and markers are excellent,” she praises him “what weapon did you think it was?”

“A baseball bat,” Russell informs her “Doc found the blunt force trauma and the indentations in the skull.” 

He winces as his eyes travel up to her head where similar blows were delivered not that long ago. 

“Why did they dismiss it?” she asks now after reading over the entire file “there’s nothing wrong with this information?”

“We had it thrown on a technicality,” he explains. 

“What technicality?” she scoffs, tired of him giving her the run around with this story.

“You,” he declares softly.

She gapes at him, unconvinced. 

“We didn’t consult with a certified blood spatter expert before trial,” he adds, shifting uncomfortably in his seat “and when I explained to them why we couldn’t, they wanted to provide one and I refused, I wanted you..” 

She swallows the uncomfortable lump in her throat at being portrayed in this way, pushing the laptop away as she says “That’s bullshit.”

“Well it happened.” he concludes, taking the laptop from her and closing it “maybe next time we’ll get him Jules.” 

She crosses her arms in some odd stance in defeat of something that wasn’t her fault but in that moment she realized, her legs didn’t hurt anymore. 

He bought her a plush dog from the gift shop and presented it to her one afternoon after her therapy. She snatched it faster than anything he had brought her thus far, hugging it tightly to her chest, so tight he thought she would crush it but she didn’t. She sank down on her pillows and brought her knees up, making a cozy little corner for herself as she examined the toy, touching the soft fur, flopping the ears and paws around playfully, giggling at her own silliness. It was the first time he had seen her smile this much for this long in ages.

She was released from the hospital a full four months after originally being admitted and a mere three weeks after awakening from the coma after successfully completing the required physical therapy and cognitive exams. He smirked at the way she danced in the passenger seat of his Denali as he drove her down the warm sunny streets of Vegas, returning to her condo. Parking outside the building caused her to stop dancing and eye the place with a new founded suspicion. 

“It’s safe,” he assured her “they upgraded security for all the tenants after, you know, February.”

“Are you staying?” she inquired with a raised eyebrow at him. 

“For as long as you want me,” he says, half an answer as always. Typical Russell. 

She rolls her eyes and he has never felt more alive than when he sees her react in such a natural, pure way. A scoff, an eye roll, a sigh, a punch to his arm, a gentle shove. He takes one step and she takes four just to keep up with his gait. 

The place smells like sterile cleaners, no doubt to rid the place of blood, her blood, that had soaked into the floorboards. She doesn’t see any leftover traces or drops but she will need to spend some time looking deep into the cracks and ridges for any missed spatter from her own gushing head wounds. She stares around at the clean quiet space, dumping her luggage on the chair, eyeing things she knows are hers but has not touched in months. Something feels off but she can’t get a handle on it. 

She revolves on the same spot in the middle of the room and he studies her, searching for distress amongst her expressions. He watches her eyes dart around her space like they did the day she first woke up. He doesn’t know what she is looking for and he is afraid to ask. 

“Everything is here,” he assures her “just as you left it.”

He fears if she finds something amiss, it will set off a series of cataclysmic reactions that will send her spiraling backwards, reeling with emotions.

“It looks great,” she confesses “thanks for taking care of it for me.”

It pains her to have been so helpless, without any control over her life for three months. Where did that time go? How could it be that she was just sitting here, awaiting the call back from Shaw’s sister regarding his daughter when Winthrop pulled her hair, bringing her to her knees as he began the attack that robbed her of so much. But here she was, in the daylight, back here in her own space as if nothing happened. There was something dehumanizing about the entire experience. 

Absentmindedly, she touches the back of her head, feeling for bumps and sore spots, relieved when she feels nothing but her own soft hair. Distracted, she only half hears Russell as he offers to make her lunch to which she nods in reply. 

What does one do after a coma? She didn’t know where to begin. As Russell starts to make lunch, she continues to hover, near her living room, near the luggage that was packed with her belongings that had accumulated with her at the hospital. She should wash those clothes and organize her trinkets and gifts from her colleagues given to her during her stay. But something holds her back. She picks at the plate of food he sets down in front of her, having lost some of her usual ravenous appetite since the coma. He wonders what else will be different about her as the days go by.

That answer is provided all too quickly for his liking as the sun sets and she paces around her room, searching for a comfort, an activity to occupy her racing heart and anxious mind. He gives her space by laying on the couch in her living room. He manages to doze for a short time before her screams startle him awake. Of course being back in her condo would trigger a nightmare, he wasn’t surprised. When he turned on the lamp on the table and sat up from the couch to go fetch her, she was already there, launching herself into his unprepared arms, howling her agony to him with incoherent statements. He struggled to keep her contained as she continued to force herself against him, searching for an escape, finding solace in his awaiting embrace. Her world was crashing around her and she had nowhere else to run. 

“Easy,” he soothed with all his strength holding her trembling body against his sturdy one even if he felt like he was going to crumble under the emotional turmoil she was facing. 

One cry in particular broke his heart more than any he had heard from her before, it was one of desperation and agony, one that took his breath away, one that indicated her pain was too great to be remedied. Nevertheless, he held her, confined to the small couch, the two of them. He managed to lean back with her and get her settled in what he hoped was a comfortable position while she continued to sob out the details of her nightmare and what she was currently feeling; her chest ached, her eyes burned, there was a knot in her stomach, the room was spinning, she wanted to sleep but was terrified to close her eyes for too long. 

All he could offer her was shelter, his arms around her, patting her back gently, reminding her it’s just a dream, bad memories, her brain on overdrive. Everything had a rational explanation behind it but all she replied to him with was more sobs. Eventually her sobs turned into quiet whimpers and then silence as she finally cried herself into exhaustion and what passed as sleep for her. He sighed, terrified to move or breath or do anything except keep a hold of her while she slept. 

When morning dawned, he had successfully kept her asleep the rest of the night, even managing to drape a blanket over her. At some point he wondered how long she would sleep for and whether or not it was safe to move her back to her bed where she would be more comfortable and he could tend to making her something to eat. A soft sigh from her and a crinkle of her nose a few seconds later was a good sign that she was stirring. Unfortunately, she nestled her body further into the couch cushions and his side where she had slipped over too. She wasn’t ready to leave his warmth just yet. He bribed her with breakfast, gently tugging at the blanket she was wrapped in. Numerous sleepovers at his house with Maya and Charlie over the years showed him that she hated having her covers pulled as a wake up call and her stubborn protest and tugging at them in this moment proved to him that nothing had changed. 

“Come on Jules,” he tried a different approach patting her warm back. 

Her response was to curl up further against the side of the couch and his side. Sensing a playfulness to her in this moment, he took the chance and pinched at her delicate side, two fingers on her soft skin. She squeaked in response and wiggled under her covers, now trapped. He pinched again and, because she let him, kept tickling. Her giggles were muffled from where she hid under the blankets but soon became hearty and loud as she protested with an exasperated plea to stop. Her hands grabbed at his weakly but strong enough to latch on and end their game. 

She pushed herself up, bumping her head on his chin, nuzzling against him, giggles filtering through her. In this moment, she was truly herself, before the coma, silly, happy, spunky, all the things he adored about her. 

“How about breakfast now?” he tried again to lure her out of her slumber. 

“Fine,” she grumbled, rubbing her eyes “but then we go back to sleep.”

“Deal,” he promised her softly, in truth he would give her the entire world to make her happy. 

The days are long but the years are short applies to more than just haggard parents at their wits end with children. He was seeing that now, his own children had grown, but her, she still needed him in an unexplainable yet wonderful way. Whatever lay ahead in her recovery he would be there for her, hoping each day started like this, with her warmth and giggles. Her progress would improve with each passing day and being by her side as she healed, watching her slowly be herself again, was the epitome of delight.

**Author's Note:**

> I liked this fic a lot better when I first started but the steam sort of died off midway. I finished anyways because I couldn't just leave it to die.


End file.
